


Foreigner

by SouthernContinentSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But The Iron Bull certainly does, Competence Kink, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Demands of the Qun, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Getting Together, Identity Issues, Interpersonal Drama, M/M, POV The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Stranger in a Strange Land, The South does not appreciate Dorian, dragon fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: Dorian Pavus is a stranger in a strange land, and it’s affecting him more than he lets on. But at least he’s not the only one.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 15
Kudos: 108
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	Foreigner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arsenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



The Iron Bull had never been to Halamshiral, much less to the Winter Palace itself, but nothing about it was a surprise. The Palace was full of very pretty paintings and tapestries - though on closer inspection there was more gold paint than gold leaf - but the Orlesian Court itself was a shining beacon of… well, something. Bull still hadn’t found the appropriate word to describe the gaggle of masked southerners, each more dressed up and self-important than the last, without falling back into disdainful qunlat. Josephine had called it “fascinating,” but then Josephine was supposed to be a diplomat. Sera had been a lot less polite. After five minutes of people-watching, and the hilarious awkwardness of the formal introductions, Bull was inclined to agree with Sera.

Calculating his ability to make small talk with this crowd at something close to zero, the Iron Bull made one turn around the main ballroom for preliminary reconnaissance, and then found his way to the buffet table. The two rules of mercenary life were to sleep when you could, and never turn down free food, and even in the middle of a political mission of considerable interest to both his employers, some habits died hard.

On the way, he took note of the other Inquisition representatives. Having been given strict orders by both Josephine and Leliana, they were spread out around the ballroom: seeing, being seen, and most importantly, listening. Bull noticed Cullen “listening,” with increasing desperation, to a crowd of both men and women near the door, and snorted in amusement. Orlesians loved a dashing officer with stories to spin, even one who was reluctant to do so. Throw in a tendency to blush at the drop of a hat - something none of the jaded courtiers around him could manage anymore - and it was chum in the water, with the poor Commander caught just short of the exit.

Not everyone had been so mobbed, however. Scanning further around the room, Bull saw Dorian standing completely alone, and frowned to himself. He would have thought the show of glittery backstabbing the Orlesians were putting on would be like catnip to a Tevinter. Or at least, a Tevinter altus - he’d heard enough from Krem to understand that things looked very different from the servants’ point of view. 

As Bull got closer, he saw what hadn’t been obvious from across the room; not only was Dorian alone, but there was a six-foot circle around him that might have had a wasp’s nest in the middle of it, the way the courtiers were skirting it. He sidled up to Dorian, watching the circle of emptiness expand by another few feet as he joined it.

“Hey,” he said by way of greeting, gesturing with his plate. “Surprised to see you all alone in a place like this. Thought this sort of political bullshit would be just up your alley.”

Dorian laughed, brief but sharp. It rang oddly off the stone curls of the ornate pillar just behind him. “Of course it is,” he said. “This sort of weaponized mingling is intimately familiar to the scion of a Tevinter Great House. And, of course, as someone who absolutely _adores_ the social practices of my homeland, I’m pleased as punch to be sampling the southern version. So _very_ good to see this sort of thing is universal.” He look a carefully-calibrated sip from his wineglass, and continued more drily. “But of course, I’m a wicked Tevinter magister, so they’re not inclined to invite me to dance. Even metaphorically.”

Bull bit off the end of a tubular, cream-filled pastry and chewed thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say it’s universal,” he said, through the flakes. “The Qun doesn’t do anything like it, that’s for damn sure.”

Dorian’s sneer was impressively withering. “Oh, lovely, I’ll just _sew my mouth shut_ and head up north again, shall I? That seems like a sensible solution. No, I think I’ll just have one of those cannoli instead. Hors d’oeurves are apparently the solution to many problems, judging by the way you’re eating them.” Pushing away from the pillar, he headed off towards the buffet table, plonking his half-full glass on a side table as he went, with rather more force than necessary.

Bull watched him leave without comment. Getting the right balance between open and aggravating was tricky with Dorian. He seemed to take everything Bull said as an insult, and he wasn’t above returning a few of his own, either accidentally or on purpose. The mage might be more aware of Tevinter prejudice than most of his countrymen, but the decades of listening to anti-Qunari war propaganda still showed. Still, he was trying, and Bull respected that enough to return the favor. Mostly.

He did have some sympathy for the way the court was apparently treating Dorian, however. Years in the south with horns had given him a thick skin in that regard, but Dorian hadn’t quite had time to develop his own yet, especially as a mage. Bull had seen that he had callouses, but apparently they were in other places, from different sorts of chafing.

Later, after seeing yet another courtier approach the mage, only to saunter off almost immediately with a smirk, the Iron Bull wandered over again.

“Here,” he said, sidling up to the mage. “Try one of these. They’re better than those tube things. Fried cheese solves everything.”

Dorian shot him a look that might been either disbelief or barely concealed disgust, but he took the plate. 

As they were leaving, after all the intrigue and the fights in the back hallways and the dramatic reveals, the Iron Bull thought he saw the same smug courtier struggling with his mask, in a half-concealed alcove. It appeared to be connected to his face with strings of cheese.

Bull smirked to himself. It was a pity Dorian was so closed off; between his competence, his wit, and, yes, his culturally unusual sense of restraint, he would be a very interesting man to get to know better.

* * *

After Halamshiral, Bull took another look at Dorian. The mage had layers on layers, and while any spy worth their handler would have noticed that up front, Bull had focused on the political aspects. The personal angles were better hidden, but much richer for it.

The thing he noticed immediately was how lonely Dorian was. He’d already noticed how often Dorian was _alone_ , but there was more than a subtle difference. What Bull now saw forced him to reevaluate his first impression of the mage as an ivory-tower academic, and his cutting humor as a cover for his hypothetical misanthropy and social awkwardness. Dorian was intelligent, certainly, and he clearly did enjoy the study of magic, but he wasn’t a scholar at heart, head buried in books as an all-consuming vocation. Dorian liked people, and cared about them - but the people of the South decidedly did not return the favor, and the weight of that shunning was clearly beginning to wear.

No, Dorian’s Skyhold solitude was not that of a scholar who genuinely preferred books to people; it was that of a child who, picked last for a game, pretended they had never wanted to play at all. His sarcasm was a cover, yes, but more for hurt and vulnerability than for faux pas. Bull did notice Dorian’s air of pleased surprise whenever the Inquisitor picked him for a mission, however; just a flash of light across his face, striking in its brilliance, before the cool facade of deflection descended again. Clearly, whoever managed to win the mage’s friendship would win a deeply loyal ally into the bargain, but it would likely be a hard slog through his reflexive personal defenses first.

Bull watched the mage in battle, too, when he had a chance. Dorian fought very differently from the southern mages, both in tactics and, for like of a better word, in _tone_. Vivienne and Solas were both masters of their craft, but there was an economy to their magic, an austerity almost, that spoke to the importance they both placed on restraint. Madame du Fer was used to being watched, by Templars and courtiers alike, and her control was the coin that bought their trust. Solas, the elven apostate, had no such concerns, but he appeared to be austere by nature.

By comparison, Dorian was a hedonist. Flashy movements, flourishes almost, that rolled the magic off his staff like an artist unveiling a painting. If he was used to being watched, it was as a duelist in an exhibition, not a prisoner under guard. Bull still wasn’t completely comfortable with such open use of magic, but Dorian made it look like firewalking; not safe, exactly, but a beauty worth the risk.

When Dorian wasn’t fighting, though, his awareness of his wary audience returned. He looked half a head shorter after the end of a battle, drawing back into himself and closing his shell of sarcasm around him - until the Inquisitor clapped him on the back, or something, and Dorian’s eyes lit up again. They’d got off to a slow start - a Free Marches noble with a family full of Templars, and a Tevinter mage - but the Inquisitor’s easy good humor had unstrung the mage at least enough to start joking back.

The Inquisitor wasn’t enough to break down Dorian’s walls in full, though, which was a pity. Their efforts against Corypheus needed all the help they could get, especially from such a powerful mage. Bull could accept this, even as he really hated the idea of messing around with anymore powerful and obscure magical bullshit. What he’d heard from Dorian and the Inquisitor about that time crap had been chilling. Regardless, they needed everyone at their best for this, and that included Dorian. And Dorian at his best clearly needed some social encouragement, from more than just the boss. It would be trudging uphill for the Iron Bull to try it himself, with or without including the Chargers, but if he could get Dorian invested in the Inquisition, beyond his personal drive to fight the Venatori and Corypheus, it would be worth it. It would be beneficial to the Inquisition’s mission, and therefore Bull’s directive from the Qun, to help him get there.

And if some back corner of the Iron Bull’s mind was tickled by the idea of Dorian turning that bright, excited look on _him_ , it was easy enough for one raised in the Qun to ignore.

* * *

With that goal in mind, the next time the Inquisitor set out to stopper up some darkspawn boltholes, this time in the Western Approach, the Iron Bull put his hand up to go along. Tromping around a desert through a bunch of Venatori wasn’t Bull’s idea of a good time, exactly, but he’d had worse missions - and it was a lot easier to wiggle past Dorian’s outer defenses in the field.

What _was_ Bull’s idea of a good time, of course, was _dragons_. He could barely contain himself when the high dragon flew overheard, roar echoing off the canyons, wings a bright spot of magenta against the clear desert sky.

“Oh, tell me we can fight it,” he breathed, coming to a stop and turning his head upwards to follow its flight as long as possible. “Think of the stories, Inquisitor! Or, you know, the scales,” he added, trying to come up with some more practical argument that didn’t amount to “because it gives me a culturally significant erection.”

The Inquisitor did not look as eager as Bull himself. He shaded his eyes, squinting up into the sun to try to see where it had gone, with the air of a man more likely to look for cover than a fight. The archer wasn’t a man who rushed headlong into danger, which was a level of pragmatism Bull normally appreciated in a commander - but, _dragons!_ The fight of a lifetime! Who wouldn’t want that?

A bunch of people who might be having the fight of several lifetimes in a few months, he supposed. But still.

“I think it’s flown off,” Inquisitor Trevelyan said, sounding relieved. “Sorry, Bull.”

“Good,” said Dorian, vehemently. “The best place for anything with teeth that large is at the other end of the desert, preferably in a cave we don’t have to go into. Good riddance, and hopefully it won’t come back. Why anyone would seek out such a dangerous beast for no reason, I have absolutely no idea.”

“For the glory!” Bull boomed at him exuberantly. “For the experience! For the way the blood beats in your ears as you fight for your life!”

“I’m more concerned about _its_ blood, which I understand is corrosive,” returned Dorian drily. “Not to mention the foot-long teeth, the even longer claws, the elemental breath, _and_ the magic-resistant skin.” He shuddered. “Magic-resistant skin! It’s just unnatural.”

“Bright horns against the sky, free and fierce; what would it take to bring them down to earth?” Cole said dreamily, behind them. “Desire is dangerous, but the rush of it feels so good.”

“Yes, alright, _thank you_ Cole, that’s enough now,” Dorian forced out, half an octave above normal. “Let’s go hand in that Orlesian’s supplies, shall we?”

Bull cocked his head at Dorian’s receding backside. _“Bright horns” eh? Huh._

They didn’t see the dragon again that day, which was disappointing. However, the Orlesian whose supplies they returned turned out to be a “draconologist,” and after a few more hours of running around after his stray materials - seriously, who brings such incompetent assistants on a desert trek? _Orlesians_ \- they eventually walked away with a new recipe for a _dragon lure_. Bull couldn’t stop grinning.

“You know, I think we have most of the materials for this, back at Skyhold,” the Inquisitor said. “We might as well get it crafted, even if we don’t want to use it right away.”

Bull’s grin widened, and he let out an involuntary whoop.

Dorian looked pained, but said nothing, merely shooting a wary glance at Cole.

The rest of the trip was taken up by bandits, varghests, and Venatori, in that order. They cleared out nests of each type of pest in turn, climbing over sand dunes and through ancient mining tunnels.

“You might want to rethink the skirt next time, vint,” Bull remarked, after they finished scaling one particularly treacherous dune. “It’s not exactly all-terrain wear.”

“It’s a _robe_ , you uncultured cretin,” Dorian sniffed. “It’s traditional mage attire everywhere in Thedas, for Maker’s sake. Or at least, everywhere civilized. I’m certainly not about to trade in my _perfectly serviceable_ clothing for whatever horrifying amalgam of chains and manacles you Qunari make your mages wear.”

“It’s mostly ropes,” Bull replied, with a straight face. “I’d be happy to show you when we get back to Skyhold. Traditional knot pattern, goes all up and down your arms but sits tight on the skin. Much better for freedom of movement than that dress you’ve got on now. Better aesthetics, too.” He let a slight leer slide onto his face as he gave the mage an exaggerated wink.

Dorian, predictably, only rolled his eyes in partly-feigned disgust. “No _thank_ you,” he said. “I prefer to keep my clothes _on_.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind about that, you know where to find me,” Bull said, feigning innocence.

The look of disdain that Dorian shot him as he walked away was not feigned at all.

The Iron Bull watched him leave, admiring the view. It was difficult for him to tell whether Dorian truly objected to his ribbing, or whether his prickliness was, again, a cover for something else. Possibly Dorian himself didn’t know. He didn’t think casual sex between men was a thing in Tevinter - or at least, not openly - but even if that wasn't the problem, there were probably some lingering cultural hangups about Qunari. Regardless, assumptions in this area were dangerous; Bull definitely wouldn’t kick the mage out of bed, but he also wouldn’t push him in that direction without a much more explicit invitation. Dorian was clearly more of a hothouse orchid than a weed; a poorly-placed nudge could send their entire fragile accord crashing down. For now, he’d wait and see.

* * *

Things went on in that vein for a week or so. Bull and Dorian accompanied the Inquisitor on a few more missions, and hung around the keep idle for a few more. Bull teased Dorian, who snarked back. They were settling into something like a comfortable routine at this point.

And then the Inquisitor received a letter. From the Qun.

An alliance with the Qun was an unprecedented opportunity, and Bull told him so. The mission to land the dreadnought was dangerous, but no more so than any of their other missions, and the _gain_ \- the gain was incalculable. Bull reveled in the momentary alignment of both his loyalties, and tried not to picture Sera in a viddathlok education center.

The day they traveled to the Storm Coast - himself, the Inquisitor, Varric, and, against several people’s advice, Dorian - the weather on their arrival was miserable. Bull tried not to read anything into it, but even the least superstitious person would find the lack of visibility from the driving rain unfortunate.

The envoy from the Qun turned out to be Gatt. Initially he was a sight for sore eyes, but his attitude quickly wore away the shine. Gatt’s sharp eyes discomforted the Iron Bull, showing him through their gaze how much he had assimilated to the South, in the time he’d been there. It hadn’t felt wrong, before; his associations with the Inquisition and the Chargers, and their growing camaraderie, had felt only natural. But now he was forcibly reminded of how dangerously unorthodox it might look to the Qun.

The mission itself went very well, all things considered. The Chargers had taken their hill, and the Inquisition party (and Gatt) had handily taken theirs. Bull leaned on his great-axe for a moment, catching his breath as he watched the dreadnought glide into the cove. It was magnificent; a hulking predator on the water, with a belly full of explosive gaatlok and upwards of fifty crew, stalking its prey in engagements with a sleek efficiency that belied its size. In a few more moments, it would be safely anchored.

And then the next wave of Venatori, three times the strength of the first, began advancing towards the Chargers’ backs.

The Inquisitor noticed first. “We have to help them!” he said worriedly. “There’s too many of them, they’ll be overwhelmed!”

“If we abandon this point, their companions will take it behind us, and sink the dreadnought!” Gatt said angrily. “Your soldiers know their duty, or they should. You endanger the foundations of this alliance for sentiment!”

The Inquisitor pressed his lips into a thin line, staring alternately at the dreadnought, the increasingly endangered Chargers, and the Iron Bull. “Bull?” he asked, his voice tight. “These are your people.”

And they were, weren’t they? But so was the Qun.

“I can’t,” he said to the Inquisitor, though he could barely hear the question over the ringing of anguished dilemma in his ears. He stood frozen, staring at the sea - and the other hill. “I _can’t._ ”

The Inquisitor turned away, shouted something - Gatt shouted back - and headed down the other side of the hill, Varric and Dorian behind him. Dorian shot a tight, worried look over his shoulder at the Iron Bull, hesitating at the edge of the hilltop until he was satisfied Bull was aware enough of their departure to respond.

The Iron Bull picked up his great-axe, and followed his leader, abandoning their higher ground.

With their arrival as reinforcements, the Venatori engaging with the Chargers were soon dispatched. But as the last one died with Varric’s arrow in his throat, Bull turned around to see a mage’s fireball streaking across the sky, straight at the dreadnought. Gatt was right; the other Venatori had taken the first hill.

A hull full of gaatlok was temperamental at the best of times; under an assault of magefire, it became an inferno. Briefly. Bull closed his eyes against the white-hot explosion, a funeral pyre for fifty loyal Qunari - and an alliance that would have bolstered all of Thedas against the coming storm.

In a brief moment, it was over.

Bull opened his eyes again to stare at the water. The disturbance from the dreadnought’s debris was gradually subsiding back into the regular movements of the waves and the rain. He barely registered the reactions of the others: the Inquisitor’s vehement exchange with Gatt; Varric’s clenched jaw; Dorian’s solemn eyes on him from across the hilltop. His own reaction, to the extent he could even describe it, was a bizarre mixture of relief and despair. The Chargers were as close as family to him, as blasphemous as his Qunari training would call that concept - but the Qun would not forgive them for this. Not the Inquisition, and not the Iron Bull.

* * *

When the Qun's assassins came two weeks later, the Iron Bull was ready. He had enough saar-qamek to build up a moderate tolerance; getting scratched would hurt like hell, but probably not kill him. He’d taken to wandering the walls by himself at night, to keep anyone else out of the line of fire.

It was just his luck, therefore, that the pair of Ben-Hassrath agents came over the parapets just as Dorian wandered up the stairs behind him.

The fight was quick, and even quicker with a mage’s unexpected help. A few minutes later, Dorian and the Iron Bull stood over the two painted bodies, looking at each other.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the Iron Bull said, feeling unaccountably out of sorts. He had had a plan, and it had been a fairly decent one, and Dorian’s presence had not been a part of it.

“And should I just have stood there and let you be attacked?” Dorian looked at him, annoyed. “Were you at any point planning on, I don’t know, raising some sort of alarm? About the Qunari assassins suddenly descending on the Keep? Or was this some sort of macho independence exercise? That doesn’t work quite as well if there’s no one around to see your muscles, you know.”

Bull shrugged. “I could have taken them. This wasn’t supposed to be a serious attempt, just the Qun’s way of sending a message. But avoiding the saar-qamek was easier with the distraction, so, thanks. The antidote’s a bitch to brew.”

“You’re welcome.” Dorian’s exasperation was fading with his adrenaline, and he sank down onto the nearby bench with a sigh.

“Besides, _you_ were around to watch my muscles.” Now that the danger was past, Bull couldn’t resist needling Dorian. 

He was rewarded with a huff and an eye-roll, but not much else; this sort of low-key ribbing was old hat for them by now. “Yes, and why was it only me?” Dorian asked, tilting his head back to narrow his eyes at the Iron Bull standing over him. “You seem to have been expecting this; you didn’t think to keep a few of the Chargers with you, just in case?”

Bull shook his head. “Nah. I told you, I could have taken them myself. Extra people would’ve just been in the way. And I wasn’t going to involve the Chargers in any more of this shit, not right now.”

“And you don’t have anyone closer to you to watch your back?” Dorian pressed.

Bull grimaced slightly. “Not like that. The Qun doesn’t like -" His brain caught up with his words and he stopped, the expression falling off his face and leaving him blank. He wasn’t of the Qun, not anymore; he didn’t have to care what they thought. He could abandon all the principles of Koslun, wallow in whatever self-indulgent and unrighteous emotion he wanted, and no one would give a damn.

That thought was not the comfort it might once have seemed.

Dorian was watching him, the bittersweet twist of a sympathetic smile on his face. “It does sneak up on you, doesn’t it,” he said. “I left on purpose in a self-righteous huff, entirely unforced by circumstances - well, alright, _mostly_ unforced - and it’s still a shock sometimes to turn around and see two of the Templars holding hands. But alright, I won’t pry about your love life. It’s not like I’ve taken any advantage of my own new-found freedom in that regard, either, after all.”

Bull sat down next to Dorian, catching what little breath he’d expended in the short fight.

Dorian didn't look at him, staring instead up into the night sky. “Can you ever go back?” he asked, a hint of wistfulness in his voice.

Bull shook his head. “No. They wouldn’t take me, not after this. I’ve already been reeducated once; at this point they’d just go straight for the qamek and wash their hands of me, if they didn’t execute me out right as a lost cause. Bas can be educated, and even Vashoth who were born outside the Qun - but not Tal-Vashoth who walked away willingly. The Qun wouldn’t trust me, not ever again.” 

Dorian winced slightly. “I’m sorry.” He sighed. “Not that the Magisterium thinks any more highly of me, at the moment, but at least I have the hope that things can change. I care about the people, after all, not the ideology. But I suppose you can’t change the Qun the same way, not without changing it into something beyond all relevant recognition. And I suppose you wouldn’t want that anyway.”

Bull frowned down at his hands. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’ve never had a problem with the Qun. The teachings make sense, the system makes sense. Mostly, anyway. Close enough. I’ve always like people, but I learned how to keep it within acceptable channels. But with the Chargers, for whatever reason, I just couldn’t; they mean too much to me. The Qun would say that sort of thing is destructive. Considering I destroyed an entire dreadnought, and an important political alliance, I can’t even say they’d be wrong.”

“Well, I’ll leave the Qun alone, for the moment,” Dorian said quietly. “But I’ll tell you this; so much of the cruelty of Tevinter is accomplished by people convincing themselves that people’s lives are less important than some larger goal. Usually the goal itself is bullshit, of course - they’ll _say_ it’s about “scientific progress,” or “increased prosperity,” or even “the glory of the Maker,” if they’re feeling particularly facetious, but it’s always about the personal power of the relevant magister, or their family. The Qun, at least, appears to be sincere in the belief that their system is for everyone’s real benefit. But when you get down to the details, every time a magister strikes a slave, or an altus bullies a soporatus, and certainly every time a mage starts murdering people to fuel their blood magic, it’s because they’ve decided that the people they’re hurting don’t matter as _people_ , but only as tools. And I know I’m coming at this from the outside, Bull, but every time I hear some story about the Qun demanding that everyone keep each other at arms’ length for “the greater good,” that’s all I can think about. Some things are necessary for humanity, for _personhood_ , and if you suppress them…” 

He trailed off, shaking his head, before finding his voice again. “Do you know who else separates children from their parents to indoctrinate them? Slavers.”

Bull said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, after a moment of silence. “I’m sorry, I said I was going to leave the Qun alone and then I didn’t, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shit all over your personal crisis, Maker knows I understand, or at least I can get close, and I just -” He sighed. “Never mind.”

Bull shifted on the bench, turning his eyes up to map the constellations in the stars. “When I was little, they called me Ashkaari. "The one who thinks." My Tama, the tamassran who looked after us - she wasn’t supposed to have favorites, but I always thought she liked me best. She gave me this blanket…” He trailed off. His memories of that time were blurred, both by time and by his stint with the re-educators, but they were still sweet. Bittersweet, now.

“I enjoyed my childhood too,” Dorian said. “Generally.”

“I’ve heard the way you talk about changing Tevinter,” Bull said finally, not quite changing the subject. “If you knew it was impossible, would you still want to go back?” 

Dorian didn’t answer right away. He was clearly pondering this new and unwelcome idea. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I… don’t think so. Going back, under those circumstances, would mean either throwing my life away beating against an unmoving wall - which I’m not fatalistic enough to volunteer for - or trying to return to my old place as a scion of House Pavus, with all the politics, and back-stabbing, and _slave-owning_ that entails. I don’t think I could live with myself, at that point. And if I could, I wouldn’t be a person I liked very much. So. No, I suppose I wouldn’t want to go back.”

“I’m not sure I wanted to go back to the Qun either,” Bull said, in a burst of raw honesty. “Even before the dreadnought. But the Qun isn’t just a country. It’s who I _am_. Who I was, now, I guess.” He sighed. “That’ll take some getting used to.” 

Dorian sat quietly for a moment. “No one here has ever called you Hissrad, Bull,” he said quietly. “And when Gatt did, on the hilltop, you didn’t look as though you liked it very much.”

“Yeah, well,” said the Iron Bull, looking out over the ramparts to the dark. “It’s who I thought I was.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Finally, Dorian put a hand on Bull’s knee. It was a gesture of comfort, not a proposition. “You’re a member of the Inquisition too, you know. I know the Inquisitor’s glad to have to have you with us. And against all odds, so am I. You may not have the Qun, but you do have a home, with the Chargers and with the Inquisition. And you have the pleasure of my own company, for whatever that may be worth to you.”

Bull looked at him unreadably, long enough for the mage to clear his throat and started to fidget. “It’s worth a lot," he said. "The Qun’s not the only source of good people in the world, that’s for damn sure, so I suppose other people must be doing something right. Some of them, anyway. But we’ve been fighting together for long enough that I’m pretty sure one of them is you.”

Dorian’s head came up, and it was his turn to regard Bull inscrutably for a moment. “I’m glad you think so,” he said finally. He raised his hand, and then appeared to rethink whatever gesture he had planned to make in midair, settling instead on Bull’s shoulder. “Well,” he said, collecting himself back into his usual public face. “It’s getting late, and I really must be getting back. Try not to run into any more assassins while I’m getting my beauty sleep.”

“Nothing I can’t handle, vint, don’t worry,” Bull said easily, following the mage back to a lighter mood. “And I’m sure the boss will lean out of his window and snipe one for me, if I yell loud enough.”

Dorian huffed a laugh, and used Bull’s shoulder to lever himself up to standing. “Alright. I suppose I can take your word for it.”

Bull watched as Dorian slipped along the parapet to the stairs, his dark robes blending into the stone behind him, rendering him a blurred and shadowy figure in the gathering twilight.

“Dorian,” he called in a low voice. The figure paused. “Thank you.”

The figure inclined its head in a slight but unmistakable bow, and vanished down the stairs.

The Iron Bull, no longer Hissrad, stayed where he was for some time. The parapet was quiet at this hour, and he was, however unwelcomely, alone with his thoughts. Tomorrow he would report the assassins to the Inquisitor, he supposed, though he didn’t expect to see any more of them. Tomorrow he would wake up truly Tal-Vashoth, excommunicated and cast out. For now, he would sit here awhile and watch the stars. Dorian had been right; somewhere in them, he could see the possibility of a future.

* * *

A week later, the Inquisitor found them in the tavern. Dorian had taken to hanging out in the main room with the Chargers, and though he still complained incessantly about the quality of the wine, it was less a sommolier's lament and more a footsoldier’s commiseration. This evening, he was having a spirited conversation with Krem over the relative merits of Minrathean wine and Nevarran liquor. Bull watched them both fondly, sipping his decidedly uncontroversial ale.

“Good evening, Bull,” Inquisitor Trevelyan said, from behind Bull’s shoulder. “I have some news I think you’ll like.”

“Oh?” Bull turned around.

“Our librarians have finished translating those books that Orlesian draconologist pointed out for us, and we’ve gathered the materials for those lures. Also, Dagna has convinced me that certain dragon-based crafting materials could provide ‘exciting new developments in fire-based enchantments,’ whatever that means, so I’ve decided we might as well do this.” The Inquisitor sighed, and mumbled something under his breath that might have been, “against my better judgment.” 

“Anyway, congratulations,” he continued. “We’re all set to go back to the Western Approach and fight that dragon! I suspect you’ll end up taking most of the hits, so I thought I’d ask you if you had any preference on back-up, especially who we ought to take with us as a mage.”

Bull looked at Dorian. He’d pay a lot to see the Tevinter mage’s fighting style against a high dragon, but that was probably a lost cause, considering his earlier reaction. “Probably Vi- uh, Madame du Fer. We’ll need someone quick on the shields, just in case.”

Dorian had obviously been keeping one ear on their conversation, instead of on Krem. He turned in his seat to face them. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, with that edge of mockery on his voice that might be either joking or genuine. “She’s proficient enough, of course, but I’m ever so slightly faster on the draw. The advantages of youth, you know.”

Bull looked at him. “Last time we talked about a dragon, you wanted nothing to do with that fight.”

Dorian looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve reconsidered,” he said, a bit too smoothly. “Now that I’ve though about it - and now that we’re out of the woods for the moment on the Corypheus front - I suppose I might be willing to indulge your questionable dragon-related fantasies. I suppose it might even be fun. Though of course,” he added in a more normal tone, “if we do all die, I’m going to hold it as entirely your fault.”

Bull narrowed his eyes at him, suppressing a quirk of his lips. “My ‘questionable fantasies,’ huh? Just remember that it takes two to tango, vint. Don’t volunteer if you’re scared of the dragon fire.”

Dorian’s only response was a smirk.

“...Right,” Inquisitor Trevelyan said slowly, looking between them. “I’ll just put you both down as a yes, then? And Varric, probably. We’ll need the range.”

“Sounds good, boss,” Bull said, not looking away from Dorian.

Dorian, not looking away from him either, took a slow, deliberate drink of his wine, his throat bobbing as he swallowed it down.

Bull swallowed in sympathy, as his mouth suddenly went dry. Well, he’d wanted a more obvious invitation, hadn’t he? Happy Fucking Wintersend to him.

He went to sleep alone that night - getting into something this new and potentially explosive the night before a big fight was not a good idea - but he dreamed of strangely comforting crackles of magical electricity, illuminating tantalizing glimpses of a long, tan throat, and one perennially uncovered collarbone.

* * *

The trip back to the Western Approach was very different from their previous visit. For one thing, Varric’s quips were a much more welcome addition to their conversation than Cole’s accidentally intrusive musings. For another, though, his interactions with Dorian had gotten a lot more, uh, _pointed_ , then their previous jokes about skirts and uncultured barbarians. Bull wasn’t sure they could have a reprise of that particular conversation without him suggesting what a skirt was _really_ logistically good for, and he didn’t think that either Varric or the Inquisitor would appreciate a front row seat for that sort of thing. He could hold his tongue that far, at least until after the dragon.

The fight itself was difficult, as expected, but all the more amazing for it. They fought together like the limbs of one great creature, co-equal with the dragon, their skills and techniques playing off against each others’ for ever greater effect. Varric’s traps and arrows exploded on cue, inhibiting the dragon’s movement enough for Bull to get a hit in; the Inquisitor’s sniping from his own bow found every weak spot the beast possessed; and Dorian’s barriers covered them all, a Fade-thin layer of protection from the worst ravages of claws and breath, while his conjured spirits harried the dragon itself, sapping its strength.

Across the battlefield, just for a moment, the Iron Bull’s eyes met Dorian’s. The mage was as absorbed by the fight as Bull had ever seen him, with a fierce joy on his face that almost matched Bull’s own. As Bull watched, he brought his staff around to toss a crackle of lightning at the dragon’s head, spinning just at the last moment to dodge an answering sweep of its tail. Dorian’s bark of triumphant laughter echoed across the sand. Bull grinned, and turned back to his own front in the battle, axe raised. There was nothing like a good fight to get the blood flowing; now more than ever, he was looking forward to their own personal post-battle celebration.

As the fight would to its conclusion, Dorian, and the dragon, and the pounding drum of the Iron Bull’s blood in his veins, all blended together in a crescendo of adrenaline, focusing his mind on the battle, driving all other thoughts from his head, save one:

 _Ataashi_. _Glorious_.


End file.
